


no birds

by dirigibleboyking



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Horror, M/M, Season/Series 02, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-03 09:02:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11529006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirigibleboyking/pseuds/dirigibleboyking
Summary: Sam, Dean, and a small town where strange things happen in the dark.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> set in that magic space between 2x11 'playthings' & 2x12 'nightshifter'.

'Ever heard of a place called [REDACTED], [REDACTED]?' says Bobby. 'Small town, sweet as pie, people seem to pass through just fine, anyone who tries to stick around vanishes, you know the type, and frankly, boys, if you ain't out of this house within the hour I'm going to be so damned sick of you that you might just be feelin' the butt-end of my shotgun.'

　

Dean turns on the charm for the waitress.

'And extra syrup with that. Ma'am, anyone ever tell you that your smile's brighter'n the sun?'

'Well, ain't that nice,' she says, and twinkles at him. She's young, curly-haired, glittery blue fingernails on a pen. 'So what're you folks doin' here?'

'Oh, just passin' through, you know,' says Dean. He's all spread back in the booth, arms hooked over the back like he thinks he's the fucking king, head tilted. 'Though now we're thinkin' about staying a while. I'm just on a road-trip, see, me and my dumbass kid brother over there. Yeah, that one with the hair. He's lookin' like a thunderstorm right now 'cause he's pissed, but he can be real sweet if you braid his hair nice.'

'Shut up, Dean.'

'It speaks!'

The waitress giggles. She bites the end of her pen. Strawberry-glossed mouth. 'Y'know, my gramma always used to tell me, before she passed and all, that I should always be nice to my sister, 'cause when we were old and the rest of the family were gone, she might be the only one I had.'

'See? Now that is some _real fine advice_ ,' says Dean. 'Yeah, see, our great-aunt always used to tell us the same thing. Didn't she, Sam? She was a saint, that woman. Oh, yeah. I'm sittin' here right now, I can smell the bread she used to make every Sunday mornin'. Raised me and Sam single-handed, just about, didn't she, Sam? Wonderful lady.'

The waitress gives him one of those smiles, like she isn't buying his bullshit but she thinks it's cute anyway, and goes over to the counter. Sam leans forward across the table.

'Dean.'

'Mm?'

'Please,' he says, ' _please_ , will you stop staring at that poor girl for the five seconds it'll take you to read this?'

'Sure.' He doesn't stop staring.

Sam sighs- it's a long, heavy, put-upon sigh and he hopes it irritates Dean to hell- and reads. 'Have you seen my sister Arlene, brown hair, blue eyes- et cetera et cetera- last seen six months ago, went missing on her way to Arizona- and there's a route- the last time anyone saw her was in a town thirty miles down the highway- Dean, she would have passed through here. She's not the only one, either- there's other similar cases- stretching back fifty years or so. Bobby's had this file gathering dust for ages. You aren't listening to a word I'm saying, are you?'

'It's a nice town, Sam, okay, I can enjoy it _and_ do my job. Maybe you should try and remember how to do that too, huh?'

Sam clenches his jaw, real hard.

The waitress comes over with Dean's pancakes and calls him _sugar_.

　

'Shit, look at this place,' Dean says. 'Sun's shinin'- decent food- friendly locals-'

'What if one of them turns out to be hiding dessicated corpses in his basement?'

Dean takes no notice. There's a garage on the other side of the street; Dean veers towards it and Sam is forced to catch up.

Dean's right; it's a nice town. It's very still and quiet and sunshiny. Rows of painted houses, all their windows dim, it's eight in the morning. They and a mechanic, working out front of the garage, are the only people on the street. The diner had been empty, too. Sam isn't sure why he doesn't like it. According to the sign outside the main road, the population was [REDACTED]. Perhaps that's what's unnerving him. There's always something weird about small towns where people go missing; he can't help but wonder where there is to go.

Dean is deepy engaged in conversation with the mechanic.

'Yeah, see, me and my buddy here- what?- oh, no, no blood relation, frat brothers, y'know- we like this place so much, we're thinkin' about renting. So, uh, have you lived here long yourself?'

'Moved here in '93,' says the mechanic, and gives Dean a dirt-creased, crinkled-up grin. 'Best decision I ever made. Ain't no unfriendly folk round here- it's a great community.'

'Now that's exactly what a man wants to hear about the place he's thinkin' of spending his golden years in.'

The mechanic doesn't recognise Arlene Jacobs from the photograph Dean shows him. They leave, Dean waving cheerily, shouting promises to go for a drink with the guy sometime.

Dean gives a happy sigh as they walk.

'Is this seriously the sort of place you'd want to live?' says Sam. 'You know. If you ever retired?'

A confused look. 'I guess? I never really thought about it. That's a pretty dim hypothetical.'

'I don't like it,' says Sam.

'Yeah, what a shock.'

'No- I mean- it feels- strange.'

It's inadequate. He realises only as he says it that it's true. A lace curtain billows out of a window as they pass. There's something phantasmical to it. He can feel the sun on the back of his neck like a hand, or the imprint of a hand.

'Strange how?'

'I don't- know,' he says. 'Just strange.'

Dean rolls his eyes.

They get chatting, or Dean gets chatting, to a local man. Sam takes a risk and shows him all the photos, one for each possible victim. The man leaves through them with a big furrow in the middle of his forehead and makes humming noises and says 'Well, now' too much. Then he asks them if they want to come inside for a coffee.

'But weren't you just going somewhere?' says Sam. The man was leaving his house when they started talking to him.

'Well, now, it isn't every day that we get newcomers, is it? Come in, come in, come on in, you can see the old place, I absolutely insist.'

'Well-' says Dean. He glances uncertainly at Sam. Before he'd looked all for accepting, but he's taken Sam's reluctance on board. Sam feels a little better at that, a little more certain.

But the guy's already ushering them in, backing them up the steps, flapping his arms like an old chicken. Once inside, he closes the door behind them; leads them down the hallway to his sitting-room.

They sit down at the table. Sam feels Dean beside him, coiled, steady.

'So, uh,' says Dean. He slides one of the photos across. 'You said you might have seen this woman. Can you clarify what you meant by that?'

As Dean talks to the guy, Sam takes in the room. There's too much furniture in here; overstuffed sofas and armchairs and a clutter of little tables. Everything's an oddly sumptuous shade of blue. It doesn't look like a colour that someone who's dressed like this guy- harmless beige, orthopaedic shoes- would go for. Perhaps his wife picked the furniture.

There is something missing from this room. It's too- depthless. The ceiling's closed over them like a bell-tower. Or perhaps it's just too warm. All these things. He can't breathe properly.

'Well, I think that'll be all, Mr Shriver,' Dean says, and gets up. 'Sam?'

'Yeah.' He follows Dean out.

On the street, Dean frowns to himself. 'That was kinda weird, wasn't it,' he says.

'A bit,' says Sam.

'Hm,' says Dean.

　

Their motel's only a few blocks down, so they walk the distance. By the time they get there- it's one of those cinderblock things off the side of the road- Dean's regained all his original enthusiasm in re: the town. Sam mostly ignores him and tries to think. He's picturing Shriver's house to himself.

'And those tacos they sold,' Dean's saying as he unlocks the door- number one, it seems no-one else is staying in the motel- 'man, I haven't had a taco that good since high school.'

The room's pretty nasty; stained ceiling and cigarette burns on the sheets.They'd dumped their stuff here earlier, shotguns spilling out over the beds, knives unreal in the cheap light.

'There's something wrong with this whole place, Dean,' Sam says. He sits on the edge of the bed; curls his hand around the stock of a shotgun.

Dean, at the other bed, is moving all his stuff onto the floor. 'Well, maybe. But is that any reason why a man can't enjoy the food?'

'Not maybe. There _is_.'

'You see darkness everywhere, Sam.'

'Darkness _is_ everywhere.'

'Yeah, but you can't go round thinkin' like that all the time. It ain't good for you.' Dean says it in the offhand way that he says pretty much anything important to him. He's cleaning out a gun, raising it to squint into the chamber.

Sam wants to make him stop. He wants to make him put down the shotgun and look at him. He wants to make him say something so that it looks like it hurts. To drag the words out of Dean's chest like vital things.

Takes a breath. 'Dad wouldn't say that. He'd say- darkness is in all of us, and it's our duty to be aware of it. You know he would.'

'We're not talkin' about Dad, Sam.' Still looking that gun over.

'We can't just go forever without mentioning it.'

'Hm,' Dean says, pressing a cartridge in. 'And here's me thinkin' we could.'

He gets up. 'Dean,' he says.

Their eyes meet. The shotgun loose in Dean's hands.

'Sam,' says Dean, 'c'mon,' but the memory stands up between them, pulled to its feet like a puppet and _Dean_ , he'd said, _Dad told you to do it you have to,_ grabbing his face, too close and too hot and too _much_ , all that breath, _You don't lay that kind of crap on your kids_ , hugging the pillow. They stare at each other and Dean, Dean looks stricken. It's unbearable. Neither of them can say a word. The silence lasts for far too long to be something they can pretend never happened. These moments are breaking them, one by one.

A flicker. They both look up at the light. A moth? But it's just the bulb. Something scratches at Sam's memory. He gazes at the blub.

'Sam,' says Dean, voice too low. He clears his throat. 'You know that ain't good for your eyes, right?'

'Yeah,' says Sam, and then, 'If this place is so innocent, then where are the insects?'

Dean looks completely blank. 'What?'

Sam goes to the window. He can't look at Dean any longer. They hadn't drawn the curtains; outside is the darkening car park, rooftops visible over the trees. 'The insects,' he says. 'This whole time. No spiders- no wasps- hell, no cats or dogs. It's the middle of July, Dean, and we haven't even seen any flies.'

For a moment Dean's face doesn't change and Sam thinks he's going to scoff at everything Sam's saying. Then, 'Listen,' Dean says. 'No birds.'

A coldness slides into Sam's stomach and sits there.

They go outside, leaving the door open behind them. Stand in the car park, deserted but for the Impala. Night still pale in the sky. A faint breath of stars. They listen, Sam can feel Dean listening. There's nothing. No hum of bluebottles or crickets, no distant rustlings in the trees beyond the car park, no barkings or howlings, no birdsong. This town is almost entirely voiceless.

The evening shines in the whites of Dean's eyes.

'What the fuck,' he says. He looks scared.

'I don't know. Dean.'

'Look. It could be nothing.'

'It _is_ nothing.' Sam knows he sounds bitchy; he can't help it. 'That's kinda my point.'

'Jesus, Sam, you know what I mean. Listen- let's go back inside. Shit.'

Back in the room, Sam sits at the table. Dean goes into the bathroom, from which clunking noises emnate for the next half-hour or so. God knows what he's doing in there. Sam tries to do some research, but he just ends up going back to the same sites, the same articles, and he can't seem to co-ordinate his hands properly.

When Dean comes out of the bathroom he seems to be on a God-given mission to pretend that everything is fine. He looks at Sam.

'What's wrong? Wallpaper not pretty enough for you or somethin'?'

'Don't.'

Holding up his hands. But he doesn't push it. He sits back down on his bed; takes to cleaning his guns again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all feedback loved, cherished, smeared in peanut butter & then slowly consumed.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning comes. They go about their rituals as if they've actually slept. Cleaning their teeth stood side-by-side, as they did as kids, a ritual that they somehow eventually got back into when Sam rejoined Dean on the road. Something else they've never talked about. It's a thing that brothers do, Sam thinks, have small, concrete things that are never discussed or analysed, things that make up the essence of a bond; things that neither one of them are supposed to think about.

He rinses his toothbrush out. Dean's staring balefully at the wall above the sink.

'How'm I supposed to shave when there isn't a goddamn mirror in here?'

'My heart bleeds for you.'

'Yeah, well, seriously, Sam-'

Sam is thinking. He thinks of Shriver's house, from which something had been missing. Looks at that blank patch of wall.

'Dean.'

'-some of us are actual grown-ups, y'know, with actual grown-up problems-'

'Dean.'

'What?'

'There aren't any mirrors. Not anywhere. Not in Shriver's house- or the diner- or the library- or here.'

Dean just stares. 'Sam,' he says. 'That's- I mean, it's weird, but it's not _that_ weird.'

'It's not weird in any of the other places,' says Sam. 'But here- in a motel- it's kinda weird. And, uh- along with the total lack of wildlife of any sort- it's pretty weird.'

'But there was that motel we stayed in a while back- on the chupacabra case- _that_ didn't have mirrors.'

'That wasn't a motel, Dean, that was a squat.'

Dean drops down on the bed. He rubs a hand over his eyes. 'So, what. You think we got a town full of vamps? Is it actually true that they don't have reflections?'

'I don't know. Didn't Gordon ever mention it?'

'Well, Sam, funnily enough the subject never came up while I was trying to stop him _killing_ you.'

Sam decides not to remind Dean that he and Gordon have had at least one long and friendly chat in which the killing of vampires had featured heavily. It probably wouldn't help.

'Bobby'll know,' Dean is saying, dialling the number.

'Ask him about the insects, too.'

Dean waves a hand at him to be silent. He listens. Frowns. Takes the phone from his ear and stares at it.

'What?' says Sam.

Dean throws him the phone. He catches it and listens.

'The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check the number and try again. The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check the number-'

Sam hangs up. He dials the number for the FBI phone.

'This number isn't available right now. Please try-'

Hangs up. 'Shit,' he says.

'Are you gonna say it, or shall I,' says Dean.

Sam is dialling Bobby's C.D.C phone.

'I guess I'll say it. This ain't vamps, Sam.'

'Fuck you, Dean, I know that.'

None of Bobby's phones work. Sam tries Ellen's numbers. They aren't working either. Neither are Jo's. Missouri's. Ash's. It's after that that Sam realises they have no-one else to call.

'Try 'Cindy,' says Dean. 'She's in my contacts.'

Sam looks at him. Raises one eyebrow.

'Man, Sam, I can't help bein' a whore.'

Sam sighs and dials Cindy.

'The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check-'

He throws the phone back to Dean. 'You know what,' says Dean. 'Screw this. Just screw this. What the hell.'

　

They drive to the diner today. Sam's glad about that; the old leather is something familiar. Inside, the place is once again empty but for the waitress. They take the same booth as yesterday.

Dean orders, trying to speak lightly, not really succeeding. Then he gives Sam a pointed look.

He doesn't want to think about food right now. 'Just a-'

'Well, ain't that nice,' says the waitress.

They both look at her.

She smiles at Dean. Blue-glitter fingernails. 'So what're you folks doin' here?'

Dean clears his throat uncertainly. 'Well, like we said yesterday, we're just passin' through.'

She watches Dean, smiling, nodding from time to time as if listening to someone. She's just standing there. Dean looks at Sam, vaguely spooked.

A giggle. They look back at the waitress. She's biting her pen; strawberry mouth. 'Y'know,' she says, 'my gramma always used to tell me, before she passed and all, that I should always be nice to my sister, 'cause when we were old and the rest of the family were gone, she might be the only one I had.'

'Sam,' says Dean.

'I don't know,' he says.

The waitress stands for a minute, eyes still on Dean; then she gives him a smile, which no longer looks like she isn't buying his bullshit but thinks it's cute, and walks off to the counter. They sit very still. Dean's gun, Sam knows, will be somewhere under the table.

A few minutes later the waitress comes over with Dean's pancakes. She calls him _sugar_.

　

They head out onto the street. The sun is loose and pale and bright again.

'What the hell was that,' says Dean, under his breath, though there's no-one their side of the road.

'I don't know.'

'No, Sam, _what the hell was that.'_

'Hey- look.'

The mechanic's over at the garage. Sam leads Dean across the road; Dean follows, cursing quietly. The mechanic's elbow-deep in a car's innards.

'Excuse me,' says Sam.

There's no sign that he's heard. He doesn't emerge from behind the car bonnet. Dean tries to turn away; Sam grabs his shoulder. The mechanic's straightened up, looking into space a little to the right of Sam. 'Mornin',' he says, friendly. A moment passes. 'Oh, yeah,' he says. 'I never knew what it was to drink a real good cup of coffee 'til I came here.

He starts to carry on a conversation with, apparently, the empty air.

Sam edges away. Dean takes a breath in, looks at the sky like he's trying not to start yelling. They stand there.

'Moved here in '93,' says the mechanic. A creased-up grin. 'Best decision I ever made. Ain't no unfriendly folk round here- it's a great community.'

　

'What the fuck,' says Dean. They're walking down the street. 'Seriously, Sam, what the _fuck_.'

'I've never heard of anything like this.'

'Has anyone? Fuck. _Fuck_. Why is this street so goddamn empty?'

'Just try to keep calm.'

'Fuck you, I'm calm.'

A little farther down Shriver is standing on his steps; as they pass he begins talking to nobody. They stop and watch him.

'Hey,' says Dean. 'Hey, buddy. Snap outta it.' He goes up to Shriver and waves his hand in front of his face. Shriver is looking at a column of space to Dean's left, nodding and smiling, and takes no notice. 'Would you like to come in for a coffee?' he asks it. A beat. Sam looks from Dean to Shriver to Shriver's ugly comfortable shoes.

'Well, now,' says Shriver, 'it isn't every day that we get newcomers, is it? Come in, come in, come on in, you can see the old place, I absolutely insist.'

'Dude,' says Dean. He actually looks affronted.

'Dean, come on.' Sam tugs him away. They start walking. Dean's cursing under his breath.

'It's like they aren't real people. Just recordings of them.'

Sam shudders. 'Oh, God.'

'Think a girl's gonna step out in front of us and start singing 'Crying' in Spanish?'

'No, Dean, I don't.'

'Let's get outta here.'

Back at the motel, Sam sits down at the table and powers up his laptop; Dean gets onto the bed and starts rummaging around in his duffel.

'I'll call Bobby,' says Sam, getting his phone out.

Dean cocks an eyebrow. 'Will you?'

He'd forgotten. 'Shit.'

'Looks like we'll be doin' this the old-fashioned way,' says Dean. 'Well, I'll do it the old-fashioned way. You, research boy, can go online.' He sits back, leafing through Dad's journal.

Sam gets online but he doesn't know what to look for. Or how. He searches for accounts of similar things happening; finds X-Files forums and Groundhog Day trivia. Searching for stuff about insects mostly turns up pesticide adverts.

'Hey, Dean?'

'Yeah?'

'Did you catch Shriver's first name?'

'Uh. Martin, I think.'

'What about that guy at the convenience store when we first got here? And the waitress?'

'He was a Matt. And she was Shelley something. Thompson.'

Sam starts typing. 'You found anything?'

'No. Of course not.' He's riffling through the pages. 'Jesus. Would it've killed him to leave us a friggin' index?'

'Is that a serious question?'

'Yes. No. Shit. Sometimes I think he didn't want anybody but himself to be able to read this thing.'

'Sounds like him.'

Neither of them say anything else. The only sounds in the room are the tapping of computer keys, Dean shifting around on the bed, trying to get comfortable, pages turning. There's a restlessness in here.

Over the next hour Sam's key-tapping speeds up. He starts chewing on one of his fingernails, knows he's doing it but can't stop. He's staring at the screen so hard it feels like it's burning into his eyes.

Eventually Dean looks up. Frowns. 'Sam?'

'I might have something.'

'Well, great.' Waits.

Sam's still staring at the screen.

'Hey. Sam. What is it?'

'Nobody lives here, Dean,' says Sam slowly. 'I don't think anybody's lived here for a long time.'

Dean gives him one of those _Come again?_ looks. Then he laughs. Uncertainly. 'Sam. You wanna explain?'

Sam's scrolling down.

'So, what. You're sayin' this is a ghost-town? We've been talking to a buncha dead people?'

He tries to block Dean out and read.

'We haven't been talking to dead people, Sam, we know how to tell when someone's dead, goddammit!'

'That's not what I mean,' says Sam. Still reading the screen. 'I mean- the people who live here- don't exist. I don't think they've ever existed. There's no records on Shriver, or the waitress girl, or that guy in the store, or the mechanic guy. No social media pages or nothin'.'

'But,' says Dean. 'But we _saw_ them, man. We _talked_ to them. Hell, that girl practically had her-' he makes a gesture presumably supposed to indicate breasts- 'up in my face.'

'Dean,' says Sam. 'It's not just them. There's nothing on this _town_ , man. I- I can't find any records, no photos, no Wiki page, no mentions anywhere. I type in [REDACTED] and all that comes up is some- some resort off the Canary islands, or something.' He looks up at last. 'You know,' he says, 'that blog post I read you. The one by Arlene Jacobs' sister. It never actually mentioned this town. None of the reports or articles about the missing girls mentioned the town. It was just- a route.'

'But that's nuts,' Dean says. 'Sam. That makes no fuckin' sense. What do they think is here, if not the town?'

'I dunno,' says Sam. 'Just- the highway, I guess.'

He taps at a key.

'According to the rest of the world,' he says, 'this motel- this floor- hell, this _chair_ \- doesn't exist.'

They both look up at the same time. The walls suddenly do not feel like walls.

'But what about Bobby,' says Dean. 'He, hell, he _told_ us about this case. He mentioned this place and everythin'. He showed us a fuckin' _road-map_ with it on.'

'Yeah, but Dean,' Sam says, 'we can't reach him.'

Neither of them speak for a while. Dean looks at the page he'd been reading, without seeing it. He looks up when Sam laughs.

'Sam?' he says sharply.

Sam smiles; shakes his head. Rubs his thumbs in his eyes. 'Man, Dean,' he says. 'If Dad were here-'

'Well, he ain't,' says Dean.

'Yeah, but if he was. What d'you think he'd say?'

'I guess first he'd say somethin' like _What the hell're you boys doin', livin' in a shithole like this?_ Then he'd tell us we had no idea what we're up against, send us on a decoy lead, and go kill whatever's out there. And maybe he'd come home in one piece, but then, hell, maybe he wouldn't.'

After a moment, Sam says, 'Shit, Dean. I didn't mean-'

'I'm not Dad, Sam. I can't _be Dad_ for you, I can't, okay? Sorry, but there it is. I ain't him and I ain't ever going to be, so quit asking me to. Just don't mention it.'

'I don't want you to be like Dad,' says Sam. 'Jesus, Dean, having one of the man around was bad enough, never mind two.'

Dean smiles but not really.

'I want you to be you,' says Sam. 'I've only ever wanted you to be you. When Dad- when we found out about the deal with Yellow-Eyes. I was glad. Dean. I was glad. I'd rather have you than him.'

'You can't say that.'

'Why not?'

''Cause-'

They're too close. Dean is no longer sitting on the bed and Sam is no longer sitting on the chair. They're on their feet and staring. The space between them should not be so tangible. This could turn into a fight, a real, bloody, desperate fight. They both know this.

Instead, Dean starts to look like he's unravelling, there on his feet, and Sam backs down. He sits back at the table.

'This is weird,' he says.

'Damn right it is,' says Dean. He's still standing.

Sam makes a sound, not quite laughter. Rubs his hands over his own face. 'D'you ever think that you might be the only real person in the whole world?' he says. ''Cause I do, sometimes.'

Dean stares at him for a moment. Then he shrugs, one-shouldered. 'Nah,' he says. 'I know you're real, too. I sure as hell couldn't dream up someone that bitchy.'

Twitch of a smile.

Sam looks back at the screen. Says, 'What if what we saw was just- a front? Set up by somebody- something- for when visitors pass through? And if you try to stick around-'

'Yeah, but the people. They spoke to us. They fuckin'- they _interacted_ with us.'

'With all the adaptability of wind-up toys.'

'Jesus. _Jesus_.' And then, 'You think it's, uh. Safe. To sleep here?'

It hadn't occurred to Sam. He looks around them. For once the idea of sleeping in the Impala becomes the more appealing option. 'Yeah, point taken.'

They move their stuff out to the car. Sam thinks of the motel clerk they'd met when they checked in; wonders if he, some time this evening, will say to empty air _Double or single?_ Dean stretches out across the front two seats, lying on his back as though to see the stars. Sam gets down in the back, curled up so his head isn't against the door, breathes in the smell of the leather.

After a while Dean speaks.

'You know, the town might be fake, but that deposit I put down for the room was real enough.'

'Are you serious?'

'Damn it, I'm serious.'

Sam grins to himself, there in the dark. 'When was the last time you had a credit card in your real name, Dean? Oh, yeah- _never_ , right?'

''We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.''

Silence.

'Was that. Dean, what was that?'

A throat clears.

'Uh. 'Mother Night'?'

More silence. 'Wow,' Sam says.

'We did it in school.'

A wind gets up, blows in through the windows, gentle-fingered. Outside the trees are moving.

It's a while before Sam speaks. 'You know, Dean,' he says, 'for a con-man?' Shakes his head. 'You are one bad fuckin' liar.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is good <3
> 
> also, i am human, fallible & have no spell-check on my word processor. feel free to point out any errors, folks.


	3. Chapter 3

'Your town is fucked up,' Dean tells the waitress as she pours the coffee. 'Did you know that?'

'Well, ain't that nice. So what're you folks doin' here?'

'Oh, y'know, we just thought we'd drop by, see the sights, get talked to by a bunch a fuckin' robot-freaks, sample the local fare, the usual holiday activities.'

'Seriously, Dean?'

'Just a little friendly conversation, Sam.'

'Y'know, my gramma always used to tell me, before she passed and all, that I should always be nice to my sister, 'cause when we were old and the rest of the family were gone, she might be the only one I had.'

'Oh, screw you, you creepy mannequin woman. Do you even have a fuckin' sister?'

'You know, Dean,' Sam says as the waitress flashes her smile and walks away, 'we didn't _have_ to come back in here.'

'Shut up, Sam, I'm actually hungry, okay?'

The waitress brings his pancakes over; calls him _sugar_. Dean scowls up at her.

'Me and my brother here, we're gonna find out what the hell is goin' on. You hear me?'

'Yes, Dean,' says Sam. 'They hear nothing, see nothing, and probably think nothing, but just for you they'll make an exception.'

For all that he'd dragged Sam out here with him, Dean doesn't seem to have much of an appetite. He takes a few bites of his pancakes and then just sort of prods at them.

'Maybe,' he says, 'there was somethin' in the food, and when they ate enough of it they just- just started bein' like this. That could happen. Right?'

Sam gives him the sort of look that that deserves.

Dean lays down his knife and fork; gets up. 'Come on. Let's go see how the other good folk of Lumberton are doin' today.'

Outside the diner the street's as deserted as ever. 'Funny, isn't it,' says Sam, 'how the only people who are here- the waitress, the mechanic, Shriver- all spoke to us?'

'Like somethin' knew we were coming,' says Dean.

The mechanic's across the road, half-hidden behind the bonnet of the car he's working on. It's an old car, green, Dean probably knows the make. They stand to the side.

'D'you want to just wait until he talks to us?' Sam says under his breath. He doesn't know why. It's not as though the mechanic'll care.

'I dunno, I guess?'

The mechanic straightens up from behind the car bonnet. Smiles at a space just left of them. 'Mornin',' he says.

'Jesus _fuck_ ,' says Dean.

'Oh, yeah,' says the mechanic. 'I never knew what it was to drink a real good cup of coffee 'til I came here.' The top of his head's caved in like something smashed it with an anvil.

'Dean,' says Sam. 'Dean, shit. Come on.'

He gets a handful of Dean's jacket, tries to drag him out, but Dean won't budge. He's staring at the mechanic.

'Oh, yeah? Are you family?' the mechanic says to that empty space. He reaches into the car's guts, casual, professional, twists a nut somewhere.

'Dean, we gotta get out of here. Something _did that_ to him.'

'Best decision I ever made. Ain't no unfriendly folk round here- it's a great community.'

Dean lets himself be pulled away.

They go down the street. Sam feels like he's forgotten how to walk normally. He has to concentrate on putting one foot in front of another. His hands are shaking. When they're a couple hundred feet away from the garage he stops and leans against the nearest wall and puts his hands on his knees and just.

'Sam?'

'Sam, hey. Hey. You're good. We're good. Just breathe for me. Yep, that's it, come on. Right.'

He just breathes. He.

'Just a case, right? Just another- very weird, okay- shitty little case. Not even any demons.'

Focuses on his fingers digging into his jeans. 'Yeah. I'm good. I'm.'

Dean's hands on his shoulders. Big and warm and recognisable. 'Yup, there we go. You good?'

Something clears. He opens his eyes. The day's so bright. 'Yeah. Yeah.' Looks up into Dean's face.

'Hey, man, I mean,' says Dean, 'I hate this town too.'

Sam loves him so much.

'You ready? C'mon, then.'

'Yeah.' He laughs, breath shaking out, because there's nothing else to do. Straightens up and moves away from the wall. Dean's hands are hovering. They walk on.

'You know what I'm thinkin',' says Dean, like nothing happened. 'You know that Shriver guy?'

'He's there.' Sam points to where, across the street, Shriver is discussing the disappearances with nobody.

'Yeah, well. Don't you think it was kinda weird how keen he was for us to come in?'

'Kinda, yeah.'

'Almost as if,' Dean says, 'he wanted to show us the inside of the house to prove that it was normal?'

They look at each other.

On their side of the road is the convenience store; over on the other side are the houses. None exhibit any signs of life. They cross; go through a gate in the picket fence to the nearest one.

'Look,' says Dean. 'The windows. Sam. They're not real. They're painted on.'

'What?'

He's right. Sam touches the window. The wall's brick, but the window's just cardboard, painted grey with a white frame. Ice in his belly. 'That's impossible,' he says. 'They weren't like that before.' Remembers walking down the street when a curtain blew out of one of them.

Dean tries the door. It opens easily. There's nothing behind it but blank brick.

'Maybe the illusion was only meant to last a day,' he says, looking the wall over. 'Maybe that's why all the people are just repeatin' their routines from that. And after that it starts breakin' down.'

'It draws you in,' says Sam.

Dean closes the door. Frowns.

'You smell that?'

And suddenly he does. Like walking past a butcher's. That raw animal smell. The wind's blowing.

Dean climbs over the fence, into the next garden, and then the next. He opens the doors of each house as he goes, then closes them.

'More brick?' Sam says, following.

'Yeah.'

Four houses down, Dean opens a door. He looks. Then he closes it. Opens it again, as if he thinks he might see something different this time.

The stink is suddenly much worse.

Sam catches up. He stands beside Dean and looks in through the open door.

'This is _so_ fucked up,' says Dean.

Sam wants to agree but he can't stop looking.

Dean goes inside, gingerly, avoiding touching the door, which is crusted brown on the inside. Sam edges in after him. The smell closes in and he puts his sleeve over his face.

There is a table in this room, and a kitchen-sink and drawers. Bodies are piled up on the table, which is large. The bodies on the table are naked and blood-scraped to the point where they don't really look male or female or anything; just a homogenous mound of flesh. They are also whole, unlike the bodies elsewhere. Headless limbless torsos lean against each other in rows on the floor, seeping. A fat mess of intestines stinking in the sink. A pile of limbs in one corner, flesh blue and green and swollen.

There are no flies.

'I haven't seen this many corpses since New Orleans,' says Dean.

They cross through a doorway to the next room. More tables in here, laid end-to-end. Bodies lined up along them. All headless, limbs dangling over the edges of the tables. All ripe and purple-stained where the blood's cooled and sunk. The smell of death is overwhelming. They go back into the first room. Dean leans over the pile of bodies on the table, keeping a careful distance.

'How could we not know about this,' he says. 'How could we not have- Jesus.' His sleeve's over his face now too. 'You reckon one of these was Arlene Jacobs?'

'What if,' says Sam, 'what if this whole town was a slaughterhouse?'

'Is,' says Dean.

The room drops into shadow. They both look round as the light slides away. Beyond the window everything's gone dark.

'The hell,' Dean says. His profile is only a faint grey outline in the gloom.

'Something's blocking the sun,' says Sam.

Dean's hand fastens onto Sam's sleeve. They stand and wait in the dark and the silence, looking out at the barely-visible street. Sam can feel every beat of his heart in his chest. Thinks he can feel every beat of Dean's too.

Dean's eyes are trained on the street. 'Hey,' he says. Sam follows his gaze.

A dark shape is visible on the street. It walks [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] whispers Sam.

Dean can't seem to speak. They and wait and wait. Sam feels like he's choking on the smell of blood. He concentrates on the fabric of Dean's jacket in his fingers. They stand very still.

'I think it's gone,' Dean says at last, very quietly. Sam nods.

The dark hasn't lifted but Sam can't be surrounded by the smell for a second longer and Dean probably feels the same. They slip out, trying to open the door as little as possible but it's alright because it doesn't squeak, it slides entirely silent. Out through the gate, and that bangs closed and then Dean says 'Fuckin' _run_ ' and they run.

Down the street, still with that smell all stuck in his nose, shadowless in the dark, all the way to the motel car-park and then they get in the Impala and Dean locks the windows. Turns the key in the ignition, even though the dark seems to be getting thicker, pressing against the windows, and they lurch forward out of the car park, headlights on. But when they reach the highway the dark's so thick that the headlights don't illuminate anything anymore and Dean pulls the car over and swears, high and terrified, and hits the wheel.

Sam grabs his wrist; holds on. 'We'll wait it out,' he says, voice shaky. 'Dean. Hey. We'll wait it out.'

He can barely see anything but he can see the glint of eyes as Dean looks at him. 'I was s'posed to-'

'Don't,' says Sam. 'Don't even try. Neither of us is dying here. I'm not dying, you're not dying. You can worry about any shit Dad told you when we're away from here.' Then he kisses Dean quick and frightened on the mouth and pulls back like he expects a punch for it.

Instead Dean just stares. He raises the back of his hand to his mouth, wipes it, sort of. Looks at it, like he's expecting the kiss to have rubbed off onto his hand somehow, like he could see it in this darkness even if it had. 'Sam,' he says.

'Sorry,' says Sam. 'Fuck. Sorry.'

Dean's still staring.

'Dean. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.'

Dean doesn't say anything. He hunches away, on the other side of the car. Leans his arm against the window and rests his face against it. Sam's sitting and watching him. Feels about five years old. Caught messing with something sharp that he knew he shouldn't have been touching.

'Dean?'

No answer.

'Dean?'

'Dean. C'mon, man.'

In the end Sam just sits there and sits there and waits for the dark to go. He keeps looking over at Dean but he can't see his face. Dean doesn't say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are love <3


	4. Chapter 4

Sam wakes to daylight. The car's moving, he can feel the thrum. His head's resting against the window and his neck hurts when he moves away from it. Yawns.

'It's six in the afternoon,' says Dean. His eyes are fixed on the road. He's not smiling. 'The dark lasted about five hours.'

'You.' Sam doesn't know what to say. 'You were awake the whole time?'

'Yeah,' says Dean. 'I guess.'

Sam watches his face, wary. 'You want me to drive awhile?'

'No. It's fine. Go back to sleep.'

'Don't think I could.' He takes a breath. 'Are you.'

'I'm fine, Sam.'

'But.' He struggles. 'What we saw. Dean, that [REDACTED] [REDACTED].'

'So we forget about it.'

'I can't forget about it. And, Dean.' Takes a breath. 'What I.'

He can't say it. The words just won't be said.

'Don't, Sam.'

'We got to talk about it.'

'No, we fuckin' don't, and if you try I'm gonna pull this car over and-'

He stops. Like he has no idea what he'd actually do.

Sam's miserable but he knows when to push and when not to. He settles back down against the window and pretends to sleep.

'Fuck,' he hears Dean say to himself, quietly, a minute later. 'Fuck. _Fuck.'_

Dean won't let him drive and he won't stop the car to sleep and Sam doesn't dare really argue. There's a knot of shame hurting in his gut. Dean barely even looks at him the whole time.

They see a few other cars, not many, but it's a relief. Signs of other life. It's not enough to lighten the mood but it's something.

Around two in the morning they stop off at a gas station, neither of them really wants to go in another diner at the moment, and Sam buys the food while Dean fills the tank. He gets all the disgusting crap that Dean likes to eat and brings it all back to the car but Dean barely seems to notice, hardly touches any of it.

When the sun's coming up he tries to mention it once more. 'Dean, man. I'm sorry. I didn't-'

Stops himself. Didn't what? Didn't mean to? Didn't want to?

'Yeah, Sam, I know.' Still doesn't look at him.

They get into Bobby's junkyard around nine A.M. When Dean gets out of the car he's got that grin of his back on his face, it could even be real, Sam can't always tell, and he's slamming the car door and yelling out 'Bobby!' like it's been any other hunt.

Bobby opens the door with that same wariness that's in his face when anyone knocks. 'Boys,' he says.

'Hey, Bobby,' says Sam. He's surprised at how relieved he feels just to see him. There's something about Bobby and his house that puts everything back into place.

Dean's already strolling in. 'You got a beer?' he yells.

'How 'bout the fridge,' says Bobby, dry as dust, and for a second Sam believes that Dean's back to normal, things can just go back to how they were before last night, it'll be like it never happened.

Inside they all sit down. Sam doesn't really want the beer Bobby offers him but he accepts it anyway. You always accept the first beer, here. If you don't, people start giving you funny looks and dropping sacred Latin words into casual conversation.

'So,' says Dean, after he's knocked back his beer with mildly alarming speed, 'that hunt was fuckin' jacked, Bobby. Did you know that?'

Bobby raises his eyebrows. 'You're gonna have to remind me. Which hunt was that?'

'What, seriously? The one you sent us off on last friggin' week.'

Bobby gives Dean a look like he's just found him passed out behind a bar. 'I didn't send you off on no hunt last week,' he says. 'Pretty sure I'd remember _that_ , at least.'

'What?' says Dean. 'Uh, _yeah_ , you did. Didn't he, Sam? Come on, Bobby, with the creepy-ass town and the missing people. Yeah? That one?'

'Dean,' says Sam. 'Maybe-'

'Boys,' says Bobby. 'Don't get overexcited, Dean. The two of you just _took off_ last week. I didn't give you no hunt. You just up and left, said you were goin' somewhere Minnesota area. I take it that didn't work out?'

'Fuck, no, it didn't work out,' says Dean. 'Sam, what the hell. What the _hell.'_

'Bobby,' says Sam. 'We've spent the last three days in a town up in [REDACTED], not Minnesota. Place called [REDACTED]. Looking into a bunch of disappearances. It was your case, Bobby, you gave us it, you collected the info- I've got the file, it's all in your writing-' He looks through his backpack.

'And there was some seriously weird shit goin' down there, Bobby,' says Dean. 'Like, I'm thinkin' we might need a tag team up there. I've never heard of anythin' like it. We saw somethin'-'

'Dean,' says Sam.

'-and I dunno what it was, but it was one bad fucker, that's for sure.'

'Dean,' says Sam. 'The file. It's gone.'

Dean looks at him for the first time since last night. Then he says, 'Gimme that,' and starts going through the backpack.

'Well, I don't know what to tell ya,' says Bobby. 'I ain't ever heard a no town called that, and I sure as hell didn't give you no case file last week.'

Dean's practically inside the backpack he's looking so hard.

'Dean, it's not in there,' says Sam. 'Look. The town. It didn't exist, right? According to the internet, it didn't exist.'

'Alright, Sam, but what about Arlene Jacobs? She fuckin' existed, we didn't pull this case outta thin air!'

He combs his hands through his hair. 'I know. I know. And that house, Dean, the bodies- that thing we saw-'

_'We did not_ ,' says Dean, he looks angry, _'invent this shit.'_

Bobby is looking at them both like they're insane.

'Are you boys alright?' he says.

Dean gets to his feet. Goes to the window and looks out. 'There's somethin' real here,' he says, 'and there's somethin' that ain't. Only trouble is figurin' out which is which.'

Bobby shrugs. Gets to his feet. 'Well, alright,' he says. 'In the meantime, you boys want to take a nap?'

'No, Bobby, we don't want a nap, we want to solve the fuckin' case.'

'You look dead on your goddamn legs,' says Bobby. 'How long you been drivin'?'

'We got to go back,' says Dean to Sam.

Sam looks from Dean to Bobby to the junkyard out the window.

'Dean,' he says, 'Dean- I don't think we ever left.'

Dean does a double-take. He turns around and then back to Sam. Puts out a hand. 'You. You what?'

'The books,' Sam says. 'Look at the books.'

The books are all there but the titles have faded from the spines.

Dean laughs. Hand over his face. 'Oh, Jesus,' he says. 'Fuckin', fuckin', _fuckin'_ Christ.' He goes to the window. Gazes over the junkyard.

Then, 'Listen,' he says. 'No birds.'

Sam realises all at once how quiet the world is. He stands beside Dean. Sunlight over the junkyard. Loose and bright and pale. Beside him a fractured breath in.

When they turn back around, Bobby's gone.

'Back to the car,' says Dean. 'Back to the damn car.'

He half-shoves Sam out of the room, they slam out the door, running full tilt across the yard, falling into the car, Sam hasn't even closed the door before they roar forward. Then they're back on the road. There are no other cars around.

'I don't know what to do,' says Sam.

He thinks Dean won't answer. After a while Dean bites out, 'We should never've taken this fuckin' case.'

'We couldn't have known. And some other hunter would just have got it.'

'Yeah, well, we're gonna fuckin' let them next time.'

'We got to think about this rationally.'

'Screw that, Sam, I can't think about this rationally. I can't think about any of this rationally. You know what? The second this is done, we're goin' to Vegas. No cases for six months.'

'Really think you'd be able to stick to that?'

'No,' says Dean, eyes hard on the road, 'but no harm in tryin'.'

'Everything's been so fucked up,' Sam says. 'Not just this. All of it. Lately. Dad- Gordon- _me-'_

Dean curses so loudly that Sam stops. 'Don't say that. Don't put yourself there with Dad and Gordon. Dad's a fuckin' problem, Gordon's a fuckin' problem, you're _not_ , Sam. You're not, okay?'

'Jesus, Dean, how can you even say that after what Dad told you?'

'Okay, then, what did he tell me? 'Cause you know, I got those words in my head every time I close my eyes, and I still have no goddamn clue. The fuck did he know about you, Sam? The fuck did he know that I don't? Where the hell did he get off thinkin' you were gonna go dark on us?'

'Yeah, and he might've been right to think that, Dean!'

'He had _no_ fuckin' right to think that.'

Lapse into silence, Dean's hands biting so hard into the wheel. Sam's eyes are stinging. Dean's probably are, too. They stare ahead in abraded quiet.

'Look,' says Sam eventually, 'let's just focus on getting this finished. Okay? We can worry about- the rest of it- after.'

'I don't like that we haven't seen any cars,' says Dean abruptly. 'S'like it can't be bothered to keep up the act.'

Sam shivers and looks behind, through the rear window. Nothing but empty road.

'What gets me is the mirrors,' Dean's saying. 'Or lack of, I guess. I mean, what other than vampires doesn't like mirrors?'

Sam takes a breath. A lore problem. He can solve this.

'I dunno if it was that they- mythologically, anyway- didn't _like_ mirrors,' he says. 'Just that they couldn't see themselves in them.'

'Is now really the time for pedantry, Sam?'

'No, Dean, I mean- why would something that can't see itself in mirrors mind having mirrors around? It's not like mirrors'd hurt it, right?'

Dean looks over at him. 'So you're sayin',' he says, 'that if this thing couldn't see itself in mirrors, that wouldn't be a reason for not havin' any around the town.'

'But if it _could_ see itself,' Sam says.

'That might be a pretty good reason not to have mirrors,' Dean concedes, 'given some of the uglies we've planted metal in in our time.'

　

Sam manages to talk Dean into letting him drive while Dean sleeps. They haven't seen a single car yet. They stop at the same gas station they paused at on their way here.

Sam really doesn't want to be left alone, he's worried that if Dean goes out of his sight he might vanish, and Dean seems to feel the same. They go into the convenience store together. It's empty, no-one behind the counter. Canned music playing.

'Hey, look,' says Dean. 'Free food.'

He can't help but roll his eyes. 'I'm glad one of us sees the bright side to our situation.'

Some of the food packets no longer have logos. Dean wrinkles his nose and avoids these. Sam's putting a handful of change on the counter.

'Really, Sam?' Dean says when he sees.

'Principles, Dean.'

Back at the car Dean adds his armload of crap food to all the stuff from earlier that they never ate; Sam suspects that this load'll go equally untouched. He takes the wheel while Dean sleeps, or pretends to sleep.

It's getting dark by the time they're close to [REDACTED]. Sam hasn't seen a streetlight all this time. About ten, Dean wakes up. They sit in silence. Something's encroached itself upon them again.

It's a thick, black, muggy night. At eleven-thirty the headlights illuminate the sign: Welcome to [REDACTED], Population [REDACTED]. He wants to stop the car and reach for Dean.

They should be driving past the houses, right about now; instead it's just more bare road, trees closing on either side. He feels Dean tense up. Then the road's gone and they're driving into a field, there's nowhere to go, so Sam hits the brakes and they stop in the middle of the grass.

'Well, I guess there ain't any point in wonderin' where the houses went,' says Dean.

Surrounding the field there's nothing but trees.

'That thing must be here,' says Sam. 'It must be somewhere here.'

'A moon would be real helpful right about now,' says Dean. 'Just figures, don't it. We got any mirrors?'

He grabs their duffels from the backseat.

'Don't think there's one in mine,' says Sam.

'Y'know, I think I might actually have one. One of those little things with a bit for powder. It got left by this chick in Indiana.' Dean's hunting through his bag. 'Annelise? Alison? Shit, what the hell? I coulda sworn it was in here somewhere.'

'Yeah, but Dean. If this thing could make Bobby's file vanish from my bag, it could make a powder compact vanish from yours.'

Dean stops going through the bag. He looks at Sam. 'I hate it when you're right,' he says.

'Guess we sit tight,' says Sam.

'And, what, just wait to get eaten?'

'Don't you think we'd be dead by now if that was all it was after?'

'Really, Sam? We both saw that thing. What else'd it want, Skittles?'

'I dunno,' he says. 'I mean. It showed us its town. Its- food. Itself. It must know who we are. Why we're here. Maybe it wants to be seen. Or to be known.'

Dean snorts. 'Yeah, well.' Sticks his head out the window and shouts. 'Great job, Mister Monster, you're a real goddamn charmer!'

'That's not funny.'

'Heh.' Dean gazes out at the patch of grass illuminated by the headlights. 'I know.'

They wait in the dark. Sam watches the sky above the trees. Then Dean makes a huffing sound.

'What?'

'Son of a bitch,' says Dean. 'Sam, we're morons.' He points to the car's rearview mirror, the wing mirrors.

'Well, it's something,' says Sam. He twists the rearview mirror so it reflects the tree-line.

　

As the night rolls on the dark just gets darker. Dean keeps shifting; he sits cross-legged in his seat, he puts his legs up on the dash. He starts eating, apparently out of sheer nervousness. Sam's doesn't know how he can do it. His own stomach's all knotted up. They've both been drinking coffee for hours and the flask is almost empty and Sam needs to piss.

He breaks the silence. 'Dean, I gotta get out of the car, man. I need to take a leak.'

The argument that follows is unreasonably long and only ends because Sam threatens to urinate on the upholstry. In the end they both go out, piss in the field, and practically dash back to the car. Sam settles back into his seat, cracking his shoulders, trying to get comfortable.

'Man, do I wish we were back in Connecticut right now,' he says.

'Guess that makes one of us.'

'What, so you'd rather be here, where we don't know what the hell's going on or how to stop it?'

'I didn't say that. But there ain't no point wantin' to go back, Sam, and I mean, like, ever. You can't wish for shit like that. You just got to take what you get and move on.'

'S' that what we're doin', then? Moving on?'

'Yep. Exactly.'

'You've never moved on from anything in your life.'

'You kidding me?' He ticks them off on his fingers. 'High school. Cheetos. That English teacher you had in eighth grade. Stella Gonzales. That waitress in Biloxi. Kirsten Dunst.'

'I hate this,' says Sam. 'Dean. Please. Fuck. I hate this.'

Silence for a moment. Then, 'Jesus, Sam, don't start.'

'Don't start what, telling the truth?'

'Yeah, alright, then, don't start telling the goddamn truth.'

They're too close, they've always been too close in this car, there's a hand's breadth of space between their faces. In the dark Sam can only make out the line of Dean's cheekbone, the pale glint of one eye. It's too hot in here. He can't breathe. The way Dean's eyes glint make him look terrified. Dean is terrified, Sam thinks. Dean is terrified. Sam's throat hurts.

He knows how Dean protects his own love for Sam. Knows Dean thinks of it as something stunted and twisted and grown wrong, something to be watched over, like an ugly fledgling with a broken wing. Something shameful and infinitely precious. They're breathing together, Sam's face is so hot, he can feel Dean's breath soft and shaky on his cheek. He reaches out, can't bear it, curls his hand in Dean's shirt.

'Jesus Christ, Sam,' says Dean, voice like broken glass. 'Who the hell do you think I am?'

Sam presses his palm to Dean's chest, just over his heart, tries to feel it, thinks he can, perhaps it's just his own pulse beating in his palm. Dean's breathing all jagged. His hands come up, fasten on Sam's shoulders for a moment, then let go. 'Don't,' he says.

Sam takes a breath. Close to tears. 'Dean, I swear, if you're about to bring up Dad-'

'Dad? Screw Dad, Sam. What would Mom say?'

'I don't care.'

'You have to care.'

'Dean,' he says. 'They're dead. They're fuckin' dead. It's just you and me and no-one else can see us and you've been killing yourself over this shit for months and I- I might be changing in a way I can't stop, Dean, you get that? And don't tell me you're gonna save me, Dean, you'll try, I know you'll try, but what if you can't? 'Cause if you can't then it's just us, right here, right now, in this horrible fuckin' field on this horrible fuckin' case and this could be _all we ever have._ This is _me,_ Dean, I need to be me while I can and you need to let yourself be you.'

'Fuck,' says Dean, 'Sammy, fuck,' and then he's leaning forward, hands so unsure on Sam's elbows and they're kissing, clumsily, teeth clacking, Sam's heart's going so hard. Draw away and in that second Sam can see the terror in Dean's eyes and knows it must be reflected in his own. He touches Dean's face, the hollow where neck meets jaw, his hands are shaking bad, and then Dean makes a sobbing noise and puts both his hands in Sam's hair, cradling the back of his head, tugging a little, and Sam kisses him again, trying to kiss that noise out of him because it's one of the saddest things he's ever heard.

Dean's hand slips down to Sam's chest, brief soft touches like he can't believe they're really doing this, fingers on the skin of his stomach and he's coming out of his skin he feels so alive, Dean's smoothing Sam's hair out of the way because it's getting in both their mouths. A mutual silent agreement, yes, this is happening, we're really going there, a line is being crossed, we're waltzing right over it. It feels like a storm breaking. He wants to get his hands all over Dean and he doesn't know what he wants. He moves in, their chests rubbing together, Sam's nipples feel tight and inflamed against the flannel of his shirt, they're practically in each other's laps, legs hooking together, and then Dean's reaching down, unzipping Sam's pants with one hand, how the hell did he do that, reaching in and grabbing Sam's dick. And he's pulling and Sam's gasping, reaching to return the favour, scared Dean'll flinch away but he doesn't. He fumbles when he's undoing Dean's jeans, has to use both hands because his fingers are trembling, and then he's got Dean's hard dick in his hand and he can't even think and Dean shudders when he rubs his hand down it.

It's a shock when Sam comes, so overwhelmed he'd barely registered the surge of arousal, and a second later Dean's coming too, both their breaths shivering, Dean's eyelashes tickling the bridge of Sam's nose, and then they're both sitting there all warm and sticky and Sam's sweating and neither of them so much as took their goddamn shoes off.

They don't look at each other. Don't speak. Instead they just lie down on the seat and clutch each other, face to face, eyes closed but foreheads together. Cooling come in Sam's jeans feels disgusting but he can't move and doesn't want to. Dean's arms are tight around his waist, so tight he almost can't breathe. He hugs Dean as close to him as he can, too much warmth but he's solid and _Dean_ , and they lie there and wait for their breathing to slow down.

　

Sam wakes when dawn's on the horizon. Light seeping in. Dean's still sleeping. He moves out of the circle of Dean's arms, looks out the window.

There's a dark shape looming behind the trees. It's stood watching them. Something rises in Sam's chest; fear, disgust, a furious triumph.

He disentangles himself from Dean. Winces; he's practically glued into his boxers. Climbs out of the car. The thing hasn't moved.

Sam gets up onto the car bonnet. Then onto the roof. Stands there and looks at it. It looks back.

'I can see you,' he says.

It doesn't move.

'You think no-one sees you,' he says. 'You think you can be stifled. You think you can survive in the dark and the warmth and the silence but you can't. You can't be in the dark forever. I won't let you. You can't keep quiet forever. I won't let you. Something that's claimed as many bodies as you can't be a coward, right?'

It stands there and looks at him.

He can feel the flush crawling up his face. 'You can make people silent,' he says. 'I get it. But you won't do that to me. I won't be quiet. I'm gonna scream.'

It starts moving. It's coming towards them. Moving through the trees.

'That's right,' he says, and starts shouting. 'You want that- you want us to see you- come the fuck on out-'

'Sam?' comes Dean's voice.

'Yeah, I get it, you're one nasty motherfucker- but you're nothin' special- get out here and-'

The car door slams beneath him; Dean. 'Sam, what the _fuck_ , get down, it's _coming_ -' and he's scrambling to yank Sam down, climbing up onto the car bonnet, reaching for him, and he's got one of the damn wing mirrors in his hand and Sam catches a jagged glimpse of its reflection and he can see it now and _'Come the fuck on,'_ he says, and the thing's moving so fast and then he opens his mouth and he _screams_ [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED][REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED][REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are love. as ever. also as ever, all you guys are amazing. <33


	5. Chapter 5

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert generic a/n here]
> 
> belligerence aside: i appreciate y'all. <3


	6. Chapter 6

'Look, Mister, I ain't gonna stand here all day.'

Glittery blue fingernails. The varnish chipped. She's biting them.

Sam looks away from her and sees Dean, sitting across the table from him, staring.

'Mother _fucker,'_ says Dean. He looks round wildly. The waitress- Shelley- looks bored, snapping her gum, tapping her heel.

'You can't stay unless you order somethin',' she says.

'It's alright,' says Sam, as Dean swears. 'We're goin', aren't we, Dean? Okay.' Hustling Dean out of the booth. 'We're gone.'

Outside, there's two old ladies chatting on the pavement. Sky stony grey. A grocer's van driving down the street.

'Jesus fucking goddamned hell,' says Dean. The old women look round at them.

They get walking. 'Dean, what the hell just happened,' Sam says in an undertone.

'Fuck if I know, the last thing I remember is you yelling at that thing from the top of the car.' And then, like Dean's just remembered to be angry with him, 'What the hell did you do that for, huh?'

'I don't know,' says Sam. It's a lie, but he doesn't know how to articulate the truth. Searches for words to describe the furious rush of horror and anger and pain he'd felt when he saw the thing above the trees. 'It just felt right at the time.'

'Really, Sam? You were acting like you knew. Like you _knew_ what it wanted.' Sam catches the glance Dean throws him, then, a look that Dean probably doesn't want him to see, almost nervous. _'Did_ you know?'

'It needed to be seen,' says Sam. 'Sometimes people need to be seen.'

Dean looks blank, then scoffs. It looks like it's a relief. 'And sometimes they really goddamn don't,' he says.

As they walk the garage comes into view; there's a police officer, one of those nervous bean-faced young guys, standing outside. He looks like he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.

They cross the road to him. 'Hey, pal,' says Dean. 'You haven't seen the mechanic anywhere, have you? We're kinda lookin' for him, my brother and me.'

'Sorry,' says the officer. He's got a shitty little moustache that moves when he talks. 'He turned up dead this mornin', just in the garage. Head smashed in. Looks like he had some sorta accident.'

Dean whistles and looks at Sam. 'Well, that's a real shame.'

'So, what,' says Sam as they walk away, 'you think this place has just gone back to normal? Except for the mechanic?'

'Sam, I have no fuckin' clue,' says Dean. Then he stops in the middle of the pavement.

'Dean?'

Dean's getting his phone out, jabbing a number in, holding it to his ear. Sam stands close to listen to it ringing. There's a click.

Then, 'Dean?'

'Bobby,' says Dean. 'Jesus _Christ_.'

Sam grabs the phone. 'Hey, Bobby, listen, you know that hunt you sent us on last week? The one in [REDACTED]? With the missing people and no obvious connection and all?'

'Yeah, what about it?'

'So you do remember?'

'Sam, I've had that case file gatherin' dust for longer than you've been alive. I ain't about to forget about it over the course a four days. What's up?'

Sam breathes out. Exchanges glances with Dean. 'Nothing, Bobby,' says Dean. 'It's just been one hell of a weird hunt. If you can even call it that. We'll stop by, alright?' He takes the phone from Sam and hangs up.

'Let's go check those houses,' says Sam. 'Do you remember everything else? Everything before I shouted at the thing, I mean?'

'Yeah.'

'Do you-' Stops. 'D'you remember-?'

'Yeah, Sam, I fucking remember, okay?' Dean's avoiding his eyes. 'Just quit askin'.'

They reach the houses where the windows had only been painted on. The windows look real enough now. As they watch a woman comes out of what had been the slaughterhouse and starts hanging washing on a line.

They turn away. 'This is almost creepier than before,' says Dean.

'No, it's not,' says Sam. He thinks of the stench of meat. For a second feels like he's suffocating.

'Baby had better be at the motel,' says Dean. 'The motel had better be at the motel. My deposit had better be at the motel.'

As they walk down the street Shriver passes in a rush. He doesn't seem to recognise them.

　

The car is at the motel. A mirror has appeared in their room. It's scratched and sort of cloudy but definitely a mirror. There's one in the bathroom, too.

'Told you it was weird,' says Sam.

The motel parking lot is now unpleasantly familiar. They pack up within five minutes. Dean lets out a huge, relieved breath when the car starts, as though he'd been expecting something to go wrong. It's missing the wing mirror that Dean ripped off and all the crap food's vanished from the backseat. They drive out of the parking lot, up the road out of town. The sign approaches:

Welcome to [REDACTED]

Population [REDACTED]

'Sayonara, fucktown,' says Dean as they pass it.

'Dean, that really doesn't make any sense,' says Sam.

'And screw you too,' says Dean.

　

The bar is hell. It's stuffed with the entire biker population of South Dakota, there's a mediocre Lynyrd Skynyrd song playing way too loudly, and Dean can't seem to stay in the same place for five seconds. He's ricocheting around like a goddamn pinball.

Sam drinks his beer and tries not to overhear Dean informing three girls that he's travelling to Hollywood to do the sound for the latest Tarantino movie.

'That is _so_ cool,' says one of the girls. 'Have you ever thought about going into acting?'

A laugh. 'Well, now that you mention it, actually, I have. But you know, it's a tough career- you got to have the stamina, the charisma, the _appeal,_ the- nah, I dunno if it's for me.'

'I think you could do it,' says another of the girls.

Sam hunches over the laptop, searching [REDACTED]. The town's records have appeared. There's a Wikipedia page and everything.

Five minutes later Dean tosses him the keys to their motel room, gives him a huge, fake wink, and leaves with two of the girls. Sam can hear them all laughing way out into the night.

　

It's nearly four in the morning when Dean stumbles back into their motel room. He shuts the door in the dark and tries to lock it behind him, but he keeps dropping the keys and swearing.

Sam turns on the lamp. He's sitting in the chair, book open on his lap. Dean stares at him. 'Is night-vision a part of freaky psychic powers now?' he says. ''Cause don't tell me you were actually reading that.'

'You stink,' Sam says.

'Yeah, well, I don't always like you that much, either.'

'No, I mean, you literally stink. You smell disgusting. Go have a shower.'

Dean stares at him for a second. His eyes are red and gritty-looking.

'Don't be mad at me,' he says.

For a second Sam thinks he heard wrong. 'What?'

'I didn't mean for any of this to happen,' says Dean. His face is slack. 'Not any of it. Sammy.'

'Yeah, Dean, I- I know. It wasn't your fault.' Sam doesn't know what Dean's referring to.

Dean's standing right in front of where he's sitting, looming over him, swaying a little. Sam can feel his heat. Whiskey on his breath strong enough to burn the air. For a second Sam thinks Dean's about to lean down and kiss him. Or just topple onto him.

Instead Dean swallows, his throat making a clicking sound. 'You forgive me?'

Sam thinks about saying what he wants to say, that there's nothing to forgive, that Dean carried him out of that fire not once but twice and how could there ever be anything to forgive, but he doesn't think that'd help.

He reaches out and touches Dean's arm. Holds his hand there, fingers pressing where the veins are. Dean doesn't move away.

'How about this,' says Sam. His voice sounds small even to himself. 'I'll forgive you for being what you are if you forgive me for being what I am.'

Dean stares down at him. Then 'Yeah,' he says, 'Yeah, good, that's,' and then Sam takes his hand off Dean's arm and Dean swivels away and staggers into the bathroom and Sam sits there and wonders if Dean heard, if Dean will ever hear, anything in that sentence other than _I forgive you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to the folks who've made me enjoy posting this beastie, which was written in a hurricane frenzy over four days last week. that includes you, regular commenters, yes, you know who you are, & you people who just drop by, you're all wonderful & make me want to write for this fandom.
> 
> thanks to my darlin' SwanqueenEndgame, who will probably never read this but deserves full credit for putting up with my irl moaning/idea-pitching/3am excitable texts for the whole time i was writing this. love you, babe.
> 
> Lochinvar, i sense you lurking. thinking of you.
> 
> anyone who fancies hearing me yell about writing 24/7: i'm @prunesquallors on twitter. 
> 
> here's to linguistic gore, emotional turmoil, & desperately unspoken love stories. as ever, feedback is love.


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